


seeing you

by NekoAisu



Series: Wondrous Tails 2020 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Altered Mental States, Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining, Possessive Behavior, Skimpy Glamours, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: Aymeric is decently sure this is karma.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Series: Wondrous Tails 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659850
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	seeing you

**Author's Note:**

> Wondrous Tails fills for Skimpy Glamours + Possessive

Aymeric de Borel is an upstanding man. He is firm in his beliefs and strong of will, a good role model for young knights and lordlings. He is also staring—rather openly, Estinien would like to add—at the Warrior of Light’s chest. 

To his benefit, it is not at all common within Ishgard to see more than an ankle or wrist. This is far beyond that. This is… nearly indecent. 

Aymeric nods along with the briefing and appears otherwise engaged. If you ignore how his eyes are glued to an expanse of lily-white skin, it would be no different from the usual. However, Lucia and Estinien have no reason to let Aymeric get away with his less than polite ogling. 

He clears his throat, asking not at all quietly, “Is aught amiss, Lord Commander?” 

Aymeric smiles in a way that reminds Estinien of a knife in the dark. “Not at all.”

The Warrior of Light, ever one to fuss over others, asks, “‘Re y’sure?” He fiddles with his hands, twirling rings out of anxiousness. He is ignorant of how the strip of skin between boot and woolen shirt is more than what _harlots_ show, the loose lacing at his throat only kept from allowing Halone herself a view by his coat pin. It may have been a reasonable ensemble in warmer and less devout sections of Eorzea. 

In Ishgard, it is practically the same as walking about in your smallclothes. 

(And what a man he is, to not wear long underwear and instead one of the smaller, low-cut styles popular with those in Ul’dah. It is, for lack of a better word, a type of panty! Small and sitting barely above the hem of his shirt! In pink! Aymeric thinks he may die if he gets another accidental flash, granted that said adventurer does not expire from hypothermia prior.) 

“Yes,” he replies. “You have my apologies for causing worry.”

Lucia gives him a _look—_ the same type she gave him when he had shown up to his post late and with a flush high on his cheeks, back when Estinien had been the epicenter of many an inadvisable tryst—and comments casually, “Are you cold, Ser Fahmi? The wind is a bitter adversary.”

Fahmi, for all his virtues, looks absolutely _baffled._ “Why’d I be worried ‘bout a chill?” 

“We are in the dead of winter,” Lucia replies, “and, pray forgive me for speaking out of turn, you are wearing far less than would be considered safe.” ( _And proper,_ Aymeric would like to add.)

The Miqo’te checks himself with a cursory sweep as if he was previously unaware of his state of dress, growing more upset the further down he looks. “M’ boots ‘re a _mess._ Must’a tracked mud in. S’rry Aym’ric.”

Ah. Of course he would recognize messy boots before that of, you know, _the entire four inches of skin above them!_ May the Fury have mercy on Aymeric’s soul. And the problem brewing in his trousers. Please. 

If Halone could swoop down from the heavens and smite him for his sins, Aymeric would be forever grateful. 

Estinien snorts. “She is not worried about the _dirt._ Where are your _pants?”_

Fahmi looks at his legs. Looks at Lucia. Looks back at his legs. “‘Re pants _required?”_

Aymeric can feel his soul leave his body. 

“Not specifically,” she says, placating. “It is just commonplace.”

Fahmi nods, seeming to accept her response. He kicks his legs, mumbling a little when he asks, “So… this’d be alright t’ kill dragons in, yeah?”

Estinien inclines his head in some semblance of agreement. 

Fahmi beams. 

He is… very simple, Aymeric has learned. He absorbs information like a sponge and can solve problems in a snap, but when it comes to social niceties and common standards, he is found to be wholly lacking of decency or understanding. It is no wonder that House Fortemps struggles to handle him (even after having experience with Ser Haurchefant’s eccentricity).

Aymeric fights with himself when his brain conjures up the thought of how well dragoon armor would go with the curve of his legs and over his hips, scale-like plating hugging tightly to the shape of his body. He knows Fahmi has been trading his staff for the lance every so often while going on escapades with Estinien, but knowing makes it worse somehow. 

He wants to keep that sight to himself.

They wrap up the briefing shortly thereafter. Aymeric’s input is minimal at best and nearly nonexistent at worst. Estinien waits for Fahmi by the door and they set out together. 

Their height difference is comical up to the point where Aymeric knows Fahmi can fireman carry Estinien like a sack of very smelly popotoes. He has been frogmarched home from his Seat more than once after Lucia began sending for him as some sort of condensed Aymeric-management unit. There is nothing funny about Fahmi’s complete lack of delicacy when told “take Aymeric home.” He simply puts his foot down, picks up an entire grown Elezen like “take Aymeric home” is an invitation to manhandling, and then flushes a brilliant red when Aymeric reminds him that he is not an _invalid_ and can walk perfectly fine, thank you. 

It is very charming. 

However, no matter what Aymeric’s stance on Fahmi’s apparent charm happens to be, he is in no way prepared for an aether-drunk Miqo’te to stumble into his office and sit in his lap. Fahmi is purring in fits and starts, the sound more wheeze-like than a rumble, and Aymeric worries for his health up until the point where he smells dragon blood. 

He adjusts his posture, allowing Fahmi to settle more comfortably atop him, and asks, “Are you lucid?”  
“A li’l.”

“Look at me?”

Fahmi grumbles, gazing up at him with blown pupils and nearly no comprehension. He sneezes. “Smells ‘n here.”

Aymeric gives himself a discreet sniff. He is close enough to that of rosewater and tea that he cannot quite tell if Fahmi objects to his own stench or that of the papers left behind by the evening patrol. He opens his mouth to ask when Fahmi says, “Bad smell. Not Aym’ric smell. Stinky.”

Aymeric blinks. He suddenly remembers how Estinien had been snapping and roaring at anything that looked even _vaguely_ like a threat—the first time he had failed to tether himself properly, Dragonsight had all but consumed him for nearly a day—and begins to notice how Fahmi has been watching corners and the hinges of his door whenever footsteps are heard outside of it. 

He is laying _claim._ It should not be attractive or enticing, but the fact that Fahmi recognizes him as _his_ is more than Aymeric would have anticipated. Estinien is clear in his attachment to those he trusts. Fahmi… simply says “I love you” too easily. He is free with his affections and passes around his attention like he is not expending energy and precious time to run your errands and feed the children flocking to the steps down into the Brume. 

He is not possessive. He is giving and understanding. There were no signs that… that he would consider Aymeric one of his hoard, someone worth protecting above others. 

(Though Aymeric also knows he has ignored many a hint that maybe he is liked as more than an associate. It would not do to get his hopes up only for them to be dashed on a whim.)

“You need to bathe,” he manages. “Soon, preferably.”

Fahmi does some strange little hand-wavey gesture and flickers, armor melting away into a wash of blue. Where Aymeric has seen him change “gear set”—some strange blessing from Hydaelyn—it always resulted in decency. Not five fulms of Miqo’te purring and settling ever more solidly in his lap. Not a lack of pants or leathers. Not whatever this is. 

He cannot look down without feeling heat flood both his cheeks and his nethers. There is a distinct lack of blood to continue staining his clothing and conscience, but there is also a distinct lack of _everything else._

Fahmi is naked. From furred ear to toe, he is shockingly bare. Aymeric has no idea how to handle (let alone cope with) the entirety of his situation.

Estinien never did this. A quickie in a supply shed while hormones run high? Yes. Sitting atop him like he is the most revered place to be, above all others of those devoted to the Halonic inquisition? Never.

There is also… many a problem that may arise from being found with someone placing hands on him so familiarly (much less naked! In his _office!)_ without due courtship and, of course, marriage. It is a good thing that Lucia reports to her post in over a bell and many of the Temple Knights stationed as security are still groggy and less than energetic about their jobs. Should Fahmi deign to clothe himself once more, Aymeric could have him escorted back to House Fortemps manor and appropriately cleaned and fed. 

He does not seem too keen on the idea, however. Every attempt to ask him to perhaps change to something warmer and more decent is rebuffed. “Smells bad still. Not like Aym. Not like _me.”_ No manner of placation seems to work. Aymeric is running on adrenaline and frustration when he shimmies off his outer coat and proffers it with a short, “Make yourself decent. Please.”

Fahmi looks at it. Sniffs it (and it’s sort of cute in an odd and very beastlike way). Snatches the fabric and bundles himself up within yalms of blue. 

It is still not at all passable as street dress. Their difference in height is obvious in how Aymeric’s clothing is many a size too large, draping inelegantly where it would normally hit his waist or hips and instead has much less to cover. 

It is also no replacement for a shirt. Or pants. Or any other manner of clothing, really.

But it is just enough that when Lucia enters his office without knocking she simply asks, “Is he addled?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Ah. I will leave you to it, then.”

Aymeric would like to ask her to please _not_ leave him to it. He has a very painful and pressing issue in his smalls he needs to care for. 

Fahmi looks at her with sharp eyes. Blinks. Says, “Y’smell like Hilda.” 

Lucia smiles and Aymeric knows better than to comment on it. “Have a good morning, Lord Commander.”

And he thinks that maybe this is the divine retribution for ogling a little bit too hard instead of denying himself that pleasure. He has long since learned his lesson.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback me please i live for comments


End file.
